Let Sleeping Flatmates Lie
by katkin
Summary: Why were people so intent on spoiling his fun? He preferred John when he was asleep...He preferred Mycroft when he was in a different building entirely. One-shot.


A/N: One more that I've discovered in my documents. Written a while ago. It's set somewhere in Series 1. Enjoy :-)

* * *

"Oh CRAP!"

The exclamation filled the silent flat. Sherlock looked up from his flask of questionable liquid and lowered it slowly to the kitchen table. His brother, who had been sat silently beside him, raised his eyes from the top of his newspaper with amusement.

The kitchen door was wrenched back noisily.

"Ten minutes, Sherlock! I asked you to wake me in TEN minutes!" John said angry, wobbling slightly as he marched over to Sherlock. Sherlock blinked back at him calmly.

"Yes," he agreed, trying to raise his jacket sleeve to see his watch without touching either the fabric or his own skin. He was sure the liquid he was dealing with would do neither any good. Mycroft leant forward to assist, but Sherlock moved his arm away, choosing instead to use his teeth.

"Four hours I've been asleep. FOUR hours! I was supposed to meet Sarah over an hour ago. Why didn't you- Gah!" he stormed out of the kitchen.

"He gets like this sometimes," Sherlock explained to the flask. Mycroft nodded his head in mild interest.

"Why didn't she call? Where the hell is my phone?"

The Holmes brothers could hear John struggling with the sofa cushions as he fought to be fully awake. "It's dead," he called to the kitchen. "My phone is dead._ I_ am dead. I am officially the worst person in the world." He came to a halt at the kitchen doorway and leant wearily against its frame.

"Hardly, John," Sherlock scoffed. "I've met the worst person in the world; you're nothing like him."

This information did not please John, instead his scowl deepened.

"Give me your phone," John demanded.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your phone. Give me. Now!"

Sherlock sighed wearily. He could no longer concentrate. It was bad enough that his brother had been watching his every move with the silent criticism of a twitching top lip. Why were people so intent on spoiling his fun? He preferred John when he was asleep...He preferred Mycroft when he was in a different building entirely.

"Use the landline."

"I can't! You cut the wire, remember, when –" John faltered and glanced a look at Mycroft who was sat expectantly for the rest of the sentence. " –Uh...when _somebody_ kept pestering you a lot."

"He means you," Sherlock told his brother bluntly. "Look, John, of course you may borrow my phone."

He offered it out and John snatched it before frantically typing the numbers.

"No 'please' or 'thank you', I notice."

"Pushing your luck," John replied through gritted teeth, and he headed for the living room, sliding the door closed behind him. Sherlock began to concentrate on his experiment again, as Mycroft listened to the muffled apologies from John in the next room. Mycroft inhaled to speak and Sherlock braced himself for the interruption.

"How's it all going then, this _flatmate_ lark?"

"It's not a lark," Sherlock corrected. "He is an _actual_ flatmate...Or 'short mate' as I call him...behind his back," he added quietly. Mycroft gave a chuckle. "It's going well, thank you very much. I'm quite capable of having a flatmate."

"Clearly."

"If that's all the information you were after then you may now go home."

Mycroft leant back in his chair, refusing to move but saying nothing more. From the living room they heard John stub his toe on something as he hunted for a lost shoe. It was followed by a loud curse.

"If nothing else, he's entertaining," Sherlock admitted. The brothers shared a smile. The house shuddered slightly as John stomped noisily down the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

"Goodbye then," Sherlock said dryly to the silence that John had left.

"It would seem you're becoming quite fond of him," his brother mused as he folded his newspaper perfectly, corner to corner, before standing to his full height.

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock scoffed. "Is this another attempt at being observant? What makes you say that?"

Mycroft folded his jacket neatly over the crook of his arm and gave a tight smile.

"I've never known you to let _anybody_ wander off with that precious phone of yours."

Sherlock's head snapped up quickly, and his brother was amused to see the flash of panic in his eyes.

"Good evening, Sherlock." Mycroft left smugly.

Sherlock leapt from his chair and darted to the sash window in the living room. He pulled it open and, ignoring his brother chuckling on the street below, bellowed so loudly that it ached his lungs.

"JOHN!"

John was nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock crouched by the window, leaning his head against the hard wooden frame. He felt foolish; mainly because his brother took such delight in mocking him. He was just in the process of deciding whether or not to be anxious about his absent phone when a creaking floorboard caught his attention. Looking up, he saw John stood in the doorway to the landing, smiling smugly across the room and dangling Sherlock's phone between his finger and thumb.

"And I believe that this is called payback," John beamed. Sherlock stood in one fluid motion and marched to John, snatching the phone back into his own possession. It was placed in the safety of his jacket pocket.

"I hate you."

"I know. It's mutual." John crossed to the sofa and sat down heavily, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. He thumbed on the television with the remote and crossed his arms over his chest. "Sarah is no longer speaking to me, so I took the liberty of phoning for pizza. It'll be here any minute." He smiled up at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked down at him before lowering himself down beside John. "Pepperoni ok?"

"Thank you John. That was very thoughtful of you." Perhaps he had been forgiven after all.

"No worries," John said casually. He watched the television for a brief moment before turning to Sherlock. "Oh, by the way, do you have any cash?"

The End


End file.
